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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28964031">You, The Reader, Suck Quebec's Toes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/unavowedwhore/pseuds/unavowedwhore'>unavowedwhore</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cocaine, Conspiracy, Crack, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Foot Fetish, Not Tony Stark Friendly, Satirical Smut, Unionization</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 06:49:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,991</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28964031</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/unavowedwhore/pseuds/unavowedwhore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When the thirtieth (and falling) richest man in the USA asks you to stop a unionization, you end up with a foot in your mouth.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Quentin Beck/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>You, The Reader, Suck Quebec's Toes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Inspired by a Gyllenhaal fan server that died when all the white users felt attacked by the fact that MCU Peter Parker was largely taken from a black counterpart. The topic of feet came up quite often.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You need to ask Beck about his feet.”</p><p>You’re the 34th in a long line of personal assistants shipped right from the Midwest to the East Coast. The pinnacle of exotic yet innocent, cute and still white, you have a specific set of skills that cannot be acquired elsewhere—namely 10.5k followers on Instagram. <em> Humble </em> , your employer commented when you showed her, <em> just humble enough</em></p><p>Your unique position in society is what made you one of the top employees in Stark Industries as a cute bumbling idiot who occasionally scheduled meetings for the man that he would ultimately miss just to prove his importance. With a liveable salary, a view from the top floor, and only a 30% chance of being held hostage by any one of his several personal enemies, the job is honestly the dream you never knew you had. </p><p>Until Stark himself calls you into his office, sitting before a silver tray with a petit serving a powder you’ll never admit to knowing about. And when he instructs you to ask one of the senior engineers about an otherwise unconventional body part, you answer as politely as you can: “The fuck?”</p><p>“Guy’s got a foot fetish,” Stark elaborates. He ducks his head and you look away. Rich white men doing powders you’re oblivious to gives you the same sense of discomfort as poorer white men praying beside you at the sight of you and any one of your short-term lesbian partners. Shifting from foot to foot, you set your eyes on the several framed images with Stark and various world leaders.</p><p>“Um.” The response is as eloquent as ever.</p><p>“I put a team on all his private connections,” Stark continues, “pulled some strings with the company, paid the major ISPs.”</p><p>“T—This company?” you ask. </p><p>This time, when Stark snorts, it isn’t just a powder. “No, silly. The CIA.”</p><p><em> “Oh.” </em> It’s more of a wheeze than any real vocal sound. Objectively, it’s no surprise that the thirtieth richest man in the USA (his rank drops with every new billion the likes of Bezos and Musk make) can <em> pull some strings </em> with the <em> CIA </em>. In reality, to you, someone who’s afraid to so much as smile at the wrong security guard, it knocks the wind out of you.</p><p>“Feet are his thing.” Rising from his chair, Stark does away with the last of the powder by putting on his thumb tips. You don’t watch as the thumb meets his gums. You only look again when his hands are in his pockets. “Now, I was hoping it would be the usual kinda scandalous jerk-off material—hoping he’d be into questionably smaller feet that’d get the FBI all hot and sweaty. But he’s not even into girls’ feet. He’s into people being into <em> his </em> feet.”</p><p>Your boss, inventor of one of the most recyclable energies on the planet, has said the word <em> feet </em> too many times for you to keep track of what he was trying to tell you. You know it’ll make you seem ditzy, but you blubber out what you can. “Wh—What are you trying to say?”</p><p>Stark sighs exasperatedly, like he’s starting to regret sourcing exclusively Instagram models. “Beck. Is. In. To. Feet.” Each syllable is enunciated and were it any less explicitly unprofessional, he would probably be jabbing you at the same time. “You. Need. To. In. Vest. Ti. Gate.”</p><p>Seven words and no less confusing. “But<em> why? </em>Is this even legal!?”</p><p>Stark scoffs. “I’m a billionaire. Laws are just guidelines. Plus, the fucker’s trying to unionize. Can you believe it? Unionizing?”</p><p>You shake your head. Your only two other jobs were as a waitress and, quite briefly, as a bartender. Neither of them required unionizing. </p><p>“Now usually I let the sleeping dogs fry, leave the small fish to lie,” Stark sighs, “but this guy, he’s got influence. He’s got shit on me. Not enough to take to any real authority—” He pauses to laugh. Of course, any form of prosecution for him is the biggest joke of the century. You chuckle along nervously. “—but enough to get the followers. He’s trying to scapegoat me, Emma.”</p><p>“That’s not my name,” you mumble. </p><p>“He’s trying to scapegoat me and ruin my business,” Stark continues, “and my ruined business is <em> your </em> ruined business. You think they’re gonna let you keep your pretty little office when the wealth is evenly distributed?”</p><p>You frown. You never actually got an office. It’s just a desk outside <em> his </em> office. But the entire floor is often empty enough that you like to pretend you own it. Still, it’s hard to think that it's worth the several salaries Stark is apparently refusing to pay. “I’m still a bit confused. What’s Beck and his . . .”</p><p>“Feet.”</p><p>“That—what’s all that got to do with this?”</p><p>“Well, if you kill an insurgent, you make a martyr,” Stark says with such a matter-of-fact tone, perhaps you forgot the minimum requirement that was knowledge of modern warfare. “You have to dispel the faith, kill the beliefs. I’m evil, sure, but who wants to be caught following the lead of a guy who wants his toes sucked? Do <em> you </em>? Do you want to follow a guy who wants his toes sucked.”</p><p>You shake your head silently.</p><p>“That’s my girl,” he smiles. For all of Stark’s questionable morality, he never fails to charm you. Either that, or your brain is primed to prioritize your paycheck, which his smiles naturally control. “Alright, get going. This stays between you and me. Word gets out that I’m his little stalker and he’ll gain even more followers. You know how social media works.”</p><p>You nod and finally, you leave. The entire conversation was so tiring, yet you don’t notice until you’re sat at your desk again and you answer the world once more with determination: <em> “The fuck?” </em></p><p>***</p><p>Because you don’t have any real work, the situation presents itself as several dilemmas. They didn’t prepare you for this on training day. In fact, you probably skipped training day. Ask a senior engineer about his <em> feet </em>? Apart from the intention of ruining the man’s life, the question itself is so crude and crass, you don’t even know where to begin.</p><p>“Oh, come on.” A sultry voice appears beside you and recognize Darcy Lewis—your extremely niche childhood hero and embarrassingly, your lesbian awakening. She’s not actually here, but you like to imagine her sitting on your desk with a super short skirt when you’re in trouble—or when you’re just bored. “Tell me you’re not <em> actually </em> struggling to figure out what to do.”</p><p>“I’m not,” you mumble. </p><p>“You so totally are.” She pokes your cheek. “How is this any kind of dilemma?”</p><p>“I can’t just ask a guy about his feet,” you hiss. “It’s—It’s <em> rude.” </em></p><p>Darcy laughs. It’s a short, sharp <em> “Hah!” </em> , emphasized by the toss of her luxurious brown flowing hair and the stretch of her neck. “Since when has being <em> rude </em> ever stopped you? Fantasizing about a scientist as your own personal sex symbol is pretty rude too, yet here we are.”</p><p>“Okay, but salaries are at stake.”</p><p>“They’re <em> engineers </em> , silly. They’re always going to earn four times your paycheck at <em> least </em>. Not to mention all the engineers that get their cuts of shares and subsidiaries.”</p><p>“Huh.” You didn’t know there was a part of your brain that knew so much about money. “I mean, I guess you’re right.”</p><p>“Damn right, I’m right.” She puts a hand up her own skirt and pulls from her panties a sheet of paper. “You’ll need this.”</p><p>When you open it, you find a long list of questions to ask about his feet. <em> Do you like massages? Do you tap dance? Do you do ballet? Isn’t Tarantino just so talented? </em> The list gets more and more confusing, seemingly drifting far from the topic of feet, but Darcy simply winks at you. “Even if you don’t get it, he will,” she smiles. “Trust me.”</p><p>You trust imaginary Darcy Lewis with all your heart.</p><p>***</p><p>You don’t have a choice, is what you tell yourself as you stumble around the building in search of the AR engineering department. As a personal assistant, professional hot girl and hobbyist model, you made a mental segregation between yourself and the others not unlike high school. The nerds and you. Though it was immature, it’s going to come in handy—nothing nullifies morality like tribalism. It’s you versus them. This is the only way to survive. Given how hard your parents worked to get you here—mostly educated and finally rich enough to afford a sense of fashion—throwing it all away for self-sacrifice would be disrespectful to them too. You have an <em> obligation </em> to shut the unionization down.</p><p>A receptionist leads you to a lab upon asking for Beck’s location and when you open the door, you’re surprised to find that Beck is not a nerd. You can tell by the way he has to hunch just to work with several monitors that he’s 6’2. His lab coat is Gucci. His hair smells expensive. It’s a startling reminder that regardless of their rank, virtually everyone in this building is pretty fucking rich. </p><p>“For the last time, the project’s only finishing its fourth iteration this week!” Beck snaps without turning. </p><p>“Um,” you greet intelligently. </p><p>Almost like your small, cute, white girl voice is a joke, he jumps and turns. Immediately, his hostility dissolves and wide, apologetic eyes peer right into yours. “I’m so—” His plan to apologize is cut short like someone flicked the switch in his brain, reminding him that virtually no-one in this building deserves an apology. “Stark sent you to have me sign a resignation letter? Cause a scandal?”</p><p>You choke on your spit and die. “Uh, no?”</p><p>“Then what?” he snaps. “Make it quick.”</p><p>What would Darcy Lewis do?</p><p>Thinking fast, you close the door behind you two, sigh and sit on the floor. Feminine vulnerability. You’re so fucking smart. “I don’t know what to do.”</p><p>Beck visibly hesitates, face softening.</p><p>“I keep telling myself, work is not where you make friends,” you continue, “but honestly, I don’t know how else to survive here. Everyone is so cold and robotic, it’s—” You laugh bitterly for added effect and you can basically hear his heart breaking. “I guess that’s what I get for working in tech. I just wanted to be smart, you know. Make it in a big city. But I’m failing. I’m failing . . .” You end with a sniff. By now, Beck is mush, scratching his beard, nose and ears reddening. Life is so easy. </p><p>“Hey, I know what you mean,” Beck says softly. “I grew up on the other side of Hollywood. Now, living in a nowhere town is one thing, but living in a nowhere town right next to an everywhere town?” He shakes his head. “It’s always go big or go home.”</p><p>“Yeah,” you force a sob for extra pizzazz, “and nobody else really gets it because—because they were born for this. I wasn’t. I’m just some . . . some girl.”</p><p>“Now, now,” Beck says, “everybody’s somebody.”</p><p>You chuckle, “But not everybody gets paid. Not everybody’s equal. Some people have to fight for what’s theirs.”</p><p>“But you don’t have to fight alone.”</p><p>His deep brown eyes are locked on yours and realize suddenly why Stark has something to fear. Although you’re lying to him, his face and voice alone are enough to make you want to forget the plan. Fuck Stark. There’s something too magnificent about this man to be ruining his life.</p><p>“Do you—” “Do you—”</p><p>You both speak at once and you both blush. This is pathetic. Now you’re both nerds. This wasn’t on Darcy’s list. </p><p>“You first,” Beck tells you.</p><p>“Do you have any free time?” you ask, unsure of your own intentions. “I mean, me coming in here to act like a little girl, I—this is pretty intrusive. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“It’s fine.” Beck shakes his head. “We need support wherever and whenever we can get it.”</p><p><em> We </em> . <em> We </em>. Your sexual organs are sending the sort of equally sexual and romantic hormones that make you think of a scenario where he truly means just you and him, even though it’s just a commie buzz-pronoun.</p><p>“And I’m free basically all the time,” he continues. “This job can’t keep me from helping my fellow man, you know.”</p><p>“Yeah.” He’s mesmerizing, tantalizing and god, you’ve never even read about marks or angels, but this man makes you wish you were an econ nerd back in senior year.</p><p>“So, whenever you need me—”</p><p>“Now,” you blurt out. “I need you . . . now.”</p><p>That’s probably the horniest thing you’ve said in your life. He doesn’t judge though. He simply nods and turns back to switch off each monitor. The way his hand gently caresses the screen to touch the buttons behind him, that’s how you want his hands on your face.</p><p>You’re still sitting on the ground, legs folded like some cute doll, and you’re acutely aware how wrong it looks, especially when you’re wearing a dress that’s folded over only a fraction of your thighs. The room is now dim and Beck sits before you, colleague to colleague. He’s fifth floor. You’re top floor. He’s an over-qualified engineer that could probably run his own company. You’re just a girl from the Midwest. Yet, in this very moment, you’re as equal as you’ll ever be. </p><p>“Talking is hard,” Beck says, “but I’m proud you’re doing it.”</p><p>You nod. You’re not even talking right now, but his pride somehow means something. </p><p>“This job is always going to seem like the hardest thing you’ve ever done, but when you look back, you’ll realize that it <em> is </em>hard. There’s no minimizing it. But you’re strong, you’re brave and most of all, you have people to support you. You at least have me. You’ll make it, comrade.”</p><p>His words are the most convincing thing you’ve heard since . . . since anything. You’ve never had much faith in anything or anyone. Sometimes, you don’t even trust the sun to stay in this sky. But this man seems so real that, accordingly, suddenly, everything else is now equally real. And you want him to be yours. Or at least, this power that he has that makes everything so—so <em> this </em>. </p><p>“Is this the hardest job <em> you’ve </em> ever done?” you ask. </p><p>He shakes his head. “I spent years and years just studying to get here. Once you know your stuff, shit’s easy. No, the hardest job I’ve ever done was ballet.”</p><p>It’s impossible to hide your surprise.</p><p>Beck grins sheepishly. “I know. Big bulky guy doesn’t seem like the type to go twirling in tutus. But I was twelve and convinced I could make it in Hollywood so . . . I got a contract to perform as the only male ballerina in my hometown. The pay was great. Everything else—” He shook his head. “No job should lead to permanent bodily harm.”</p><p>“What happened to you?” It’s your first or second genuine question. </p><p>“You don’t want to know.”</p><p>“I do!” You want to know <em> everything </em> about him. </p><p>He sighs and he stands up. You on the floor, him standing above you—this is a position you’d love to explore in the future. He slips off his shoes and surprisingly, his feet only smell salty compared to the worst of sock smells. It’s when he slips off his socks as well that you can see why ballet must have been his hardest job. However much practice he did, it had permanently altered his bone structure, leaving each part of his feet with an extra curve or bend. Pity filled your heart, then rage. He would have been a minor too young to know his rights. Even then, no job <em> should </em> lead to this kind of harm. Instinctively, your hands reach out to hold his foot. He flinches, wobbling, but he lets you hold it. </p><p>“It’s disgusting. This is disgusting.”</p><p>“You like this, don’t you?” You hardly recognize your own voice. Inner imaginary Darcy Lewis must have jumped out to provide you with an extra dose of hot girl magic. </p><p>He hesitates. “I try not to indulge it.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t you say it’s your right to do so?” Is this flirting? Are you flirting? You’re holding a man’s foot and flirting with him. Everything about this is wrong and weird, but not enough to stop you. “Especially when it was this horrible capitalistic system that took it from you.”</p><p>“Well, I—” A grunt steals his words as you press your lips to his biggest toe, tongue darting out to taste the saltiness and feel his dry, cracked skin. <em> “Jesus.” </em></p><p>He doesn’t stop you, so you continue, tongue slipping between the spaces of permanently blistered toes. His heavy breath encourages you to go on until he’s pulled his chair from his desk to sit on and grips the seat tightly enough that you imagine he’s straining against his pants right now. </p><p>“Hey, hey, hey.” Beck retracts his feet and though your mouth is now filled with all sorts of questionable tastes, you feel no real shame. It must be the imaginary Darcy again. “Hey,” he says.</p><p>“Hey,” you answer.</p><p>“That—this—” He exhales strongly, completely lost for words.</p><p>“Stark’s planning against you,” you blurt out. There goes your desk. Seems worth it though, even if you did just go down on this man’s <em> foot. </em></p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“CIA’s in on it too.”</p><p>Beck frowns, visibly startled. “Well, I didn’t know that.”</p><p>“I don’t want to lose my job or my place, but you’re so—” You almost say something lame like <em> nice </em> or <em> pretty </em>, but he saves you from the catastrophe by taking your hand and pulling you up so now you’re standing over him and this seems like yet another position to be explored in the future.</p><p>“You won’t lose anything. Not as long as we stick together. Agreed?”</p><p>You nod. How could you <em> not </em> agree?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am a very sad person.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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